“Because you may save yourself lifelong unhappiness.”

Sammy pondered, her lashes dropped, her hands clasped in her muff.

“Piet,” she said gravely, “it’s not as bad as that.  No—­I’ll not be unhappy.  I love Wheatfield, and horses, and the old house, and—­” she hesitated, adding more brightly:  “and you can make happiness, you know!  Just because it’s spring, or it’s Thanksgiving, or you’ve got a good book!  Please go on,” she urged suddenly.  “We’re very conspicuous here.”

They moved slowly along under the bare trees.  A sullen sunset colored the western sky.  The drive was filled with motor-cars, and groups of riders galloped on the muddy bridle-path.  It was just dusk.  Suddenly, as the lamplighters went their rounds, all the park bloomed with milky disks of light.

“You see,” Sammy went on presently, “I’ve thought this all out.  Anthony’s a good man, and he loves me, and I—­well, I’ve promised.  What right have I to say calmly that I’ve changed my mind, and to hurt him and make him ridiculous before all the people he loves?  He knows I’ll have money some day—­no, Piet, you needn’t look so!  That has nothing to do with it!  But, of course, he knows it; and I said we would have a motor,—­he’s wild for one!—­and entertain, don’t you know, and that’s what he’s waiting for and counting on.  He doesn’t deserve to be shamed and humiliated.  And, besides, it would break his mother’s heart.  She’s been awfully sweet to me.  And it must be a bitter thing to be told that you’re not good enough for the woman you love.  Anthony saved my life, you know, and I can’t break my word.  I said:  ‘On my oath, I’ll come back.’  And just because there is a difference between him—­and us,” she hesitated, “he’s all the prouder and more sensitive.  And it’s only a difference in surface things!” finished Sammy, loyally.

Piet was silent.

“Why, Tom keeps telling me that mother was a Cabot, and grandfather a judge, and talking Winthrop Colony and Copleys and Gilbert Stuarts to me!” the girl burst out presently.  “As if that wasn’t the very reason for my being honorable!  That’s what blood’s for!”

Still Piet was silent, his kind, ugly face set and dark.

“And then, you know,” said Sammy, with sudden brightness, “when I get back, and see the dear old place again, and get a good big breath of air,—­which we don’t have here!—­why, it’ll all straighten out and seem right again.  My hope is,” she added, turning her honest eyes to the gloomy ones so near her, “my hope is that Anthony will be willing to wait a while—­”

“What makes you think he is likely to?” said Piet, dryly.

There was a silence.  Then he added: 

“When do you go?”

“The—­the twenty-sixth, I believe.  I’ve got aunty’s consent—­I go with the Archibalds to San Francisco.”

“And this is—?”

“The twentieth.”